His Art is Eccentricity
by Lady Jaida
Summary: The next edition in a saga which seems to follow absolutely no timeline at all. Schuldig's room is no longer his own, Crawford's plan begins to unfold, and that's just the beginning. Chapter One up so far. R&R.
1. 1:

_His art is eccentricity, his aim_

_How not to hit the mark he seems to aim at,_

_His passion how to avoid the obvious,_

_His technique how to vary the avoidance.___

_The others throw to be comprehended. He_

_Throws to be a moment misunderstood._

-from **Pitcher by Robert Francis**

**His Art is Eccentricity**

Imagine this. Twenty four years old, tall, red hair, satisfied green eyes. Schuldig is a wealth of cunning but has never been properly educated. He is German, speaks only English with a German accent. This is because he learned English first after German, and traces of his youth remain in the language. And only there. He speaks also Japanese, French, Italian, Spanish and Chinese. Soon he will be fluent in Korean, and will set his sights on Swedish which he assumes will be simple. It will be. He moves with a certain precision and grace that speak of cockiness over self-assurance. He is too thin. That is all right; he wears it well. He likes loud music, angry music, popular music. Of classical music he knows very little, but that he has heard one melody by Chopin and grudgingly liked it. He does not like to read, nor does he like to follow orders, nor does he do what he does not like to do. Sometimes he considers himself bisexual, when he thinks to consider it. More often than not he fucks first and considers never. 

He is taking the long way home. It is May. Spring has come. This morning he killed a man Crawford told him to kill. He still has the man's name and address on a piece of paper in his left jeans pocket, with his pack of cigarettes. He looks good. He has color in his cheeks. He's smoked three cigarettes during the long way home. He's just reveling in what he's done. That's the only appreciation the man he killed will get – the only appreciation Schuldig has for life. How good it feels to take it away, Schuldig thinks. It is an unusual and perhaps unnecessary time of contemplation.

It goes like this.

_Bang, bang. Ha. Fucker._

There's no more depth than that. Twenty four years old, tall, red hair, satisfied green eyes. He feels good. He feels damn good. He stops along the long way home and buys himself a pack of gum. He buys it with the yen he got out of the man's pocket, before he killed him. This is a robbery, Schuldig said, and then he cracked the fuck up and blew the guy's brains out.

The gum tastes good.

Imagine this. Twenty four years old, unsuspecting, inherently obnoxious, high cheekbones. Schuldig comes home and slams the door behind him. In the kitchen he pours himself a mug of ice cold coffee that probably tastes like shit. He scratches a line through the man's name on the piece of paper with a marker and pins it up on the fridge with a magnet shaped like a banana. He takes a sip of the coffee, makes a disgusted face. He pours an inch of the coffee down the sink. Four packets of sugar substitute and an inch of half-and-half later and the coffee is palatable.

"Shit," Schuldig says to no one, looking for the oreos, "someone needs to make more coffee." It is intrinsic to Schuldig's nature that he will not make more coffee. He finds the oreos, makes a lot of noise with the plastic wrapper taking one out. "Nagi. Nagi, I don't want the fucking cookie part," he calls. Nagi will eat the chocolate while Schuldig eats the cream inside which is a fucking liar, because it doesn't taste like cream. It tastes like sugar glop, like really bad icing. Schuldig likes it.

"Nagi's out," Crawford says, coming in. He makes a face at the old coffee. "Is that old coffee you're drinking?" 

"Yeah. Letting your house go to shit, leaving old coffee like this lying around." Schuldig scrapes the white filling off the cookie with his front teeth. He licks the chocolate cookie experimentally. He makes a face. "Want a cookie?"

"No," Crawford says. He doesn't sound amused.

"Well, Nagi eats them."

"Mm." Crawford takes the piece of paper down from the fridge. He lifts a brow at the banana magnet. "When did you buy this?" Schuldig shrugs. If Crawford were a laughing man he would kick his German out on his ass, laughing so hard. Crawford is not a laughing man. Instead of laughing he crumples the piece of paper and throws it in the trash. "Dead?"

"_So_ dead. Dead as a whatever. Dead fucking thing." Schuldig dips the cookie into the cold coffee, waits for it to get soggy. It doesn't taste any better like that, though. He looks at Crawford out of the corner of his eye. Crawford's rolling down his shirtsleeves, buttoning them neatly at his wrists. Schuldig watches his hands for a moment, tilts his head to the side, eats his soggy cookie without thinking about it. "You're bleeding." Schuldig taps the side of his own cheek. Curious. Crawford does the same. One finger comes away with blood.

"Hm."

"Talkative, today."

"It's not my blood."

"You been busy?" Schuldig is feeling generous. He gets a paper towel wet and moves to wipe the blood off Crawford's face. Crawford allows him.

"I suppose."

"Looks like it. Whose blood?"

"Gier's."

"She a bleeder?" Schuldig's amused. He's never heard of any Gier but he's amused anyway. He can't help but comment. "You're going down some fucking list, aren't you."

"You could say that. She's in your room."

Silence. Schuldig's hand stills on Crawford's cheek.

"What the fuck." 

"She's a bleeder. She's in your room. Probably bleeding on your bed. If you don't act like an idiot I'll buy you a new one."

"What the _fuck."_

"And," Crawford adds, "she's sleeping. I'll cut your tongue out if I have to, so stay quiet." Crawford takes the wet paper towel out of Schuldig's hand and finishes cleaning himself off. "Hm," he says again. He throws the bloody paper towel in the trash, too, and washes his hands clean. "If you go in there," his voice stops Schuldig at the kitchen door, "I'll shoot your knees off." He hasn't even turned around to look at Schuldig.

"Are you going to fucking _explain_ yourself?" Schuldig asks finally.

"Now that you ask," Crawford says, "no." Schuldig has never wanted to kill him more. 

"You sent me out to kill that dick to keep me out of the house."

"I suppose."

"And now there's some cunt in my bedroom bleeding on my fucking bed."

"It would seem so."

"And you expect me to shut the fuck up about it?"

"Against all hopes." Crawford's voice is dry. Schuldig is going to get nowhere and he knows it.

"Jesus Christ, you son of a fucking bitch."

"How eloquent of you. I suggest you watch television, or do something productive like read a newspaper or a book, until Nagi gets back. There's no use explaining things twice."

When Schuldig starts towards his room he hears the click of Crawford cocking his gun and stops. Is it worth it to get his legs shot off just to know what the fuck is going on? Maybe. He's angry enough not to think about the consequences. He wavers.

"Don't," Crawford says, standing in the kitchen doorway. "Go into the living room and calm down."

So, Schuldig goes into the living room. But he does _not calm down._

He's watching the Bold and the Beautiful and shoving Oreo crumbs vengefully beneath the couch cushions when Nagi comes in. Nagi looks tired and pale, but Nagi always looks tired and pale. Nagi doesn't get much sleep, and unlike Schuldig he doesn't wear all circumstances well. He's young, he's small, he's fine-boned. He has a weary air that is far from attractive. Sometimes, Schuldig finds it attractive and sometimes Schuldig has the patience to pretend to soothe it and sometimes Schuldig is cautious of it, because after all if Nagi's tired then he could just as soon break you in half as he could make himself a cheese sandwich. Right now Schuldig has no patience, not even for the Pope and especially not for the Pope, and he doesn't give a fuck about how tired Nagi is at the goddamn moment.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Schuldig asks. He throws a cookie at Nagi's head, which comes to a half a full inch away from Nagi's nose. "Nice catch," he admits, as Nagi throws it back to him – to him, at him, same thing. Schuldig licks the icing off. 

"We had a full bag of those this morning," Nagi points out. He is so fucking patient. "What's happened?"

"There's someone named Gier in my fucking _room," Schuldig says._

"Oh," Nagi says. He thinks, _this isn't good._

_You're damn fucking right it isn't._

_Can Crawford hear us?_

_Fuck, no._ Schuldig hands Nagi the cookie and Nagi sits down next to him, lifts a brow, eats it.

_So it's Crawford's fault._

_Everything is Crawford's fault. Fuck this, I had to wait until you fucking saw your ass back here to know what the fuck is going on._

"Good cookie," Nagi says, out loud. Crawford, in the doorway, watches them both with unreadable eyes.

"So who the fuck is Gier?" Schuldig asks. 

"Nineteen years old. Five foot six, blonde, brown eyes. Born in Austria. She's just your type, Schuldig, and if you fuck her, I will kill you." Good old Crawford, Schuldig tells himself. Tells you everything about a person and still manages to leave you knowing nothing at all.

_Said that about you,_ Schuldig thinks idly in Nagi's direction, _never followed through on that_, did he._ Nagi eats his cookie slowly and without comment._

"So who the fuck _is_ she?" Schuldig insists.

"I just told you." Crawford looks smug. Schuldig's fingers itch to hit him.

"Why the fuck is she _here_?" Schuldig tries again.

"Different question," Crawford points out. "One which I'm not answering as of yet, so do please curb your curiosity for the time being." Crawford slips his tie into a comfortable knot, tightening it around his neck. "I'm going out. Don't do anything stupid." He puts on his jacket, and locks the door behind him. From the outside.

Schuldig listens to the click with a mutinous face. He waits three minutes, counting the seconds by the VCR clock, and then he stands. Stretches. Smiles.

"Well, I'm feeling fucking great about this," he says. "I think I'm going to go say hello."

"Schuldig," Nagi warns.

"It's only _polite," Schuldig points out. He looks dangerous. Nagi doesn't think he could stop him, even if he tried. Nagi does think that Crawford is going to kill them both, but maybe they'll have time to run away first. Nagi does think of Schuldig and himself as fugitives in some foreign country, Schuldig buying tacky souvenirs and eating at expensive restaurants and sleeping in expensive hotels and talking to expensive whores, and starts to get another headache._

What a day, Nagi thinks. He leaves the curiosity to Schuldig, and goes to take a nap.

She's asleep. Not particularly attractive, her blonde hair dyed, her features blunt and uninspiring, her figure fairly chunky. She has large breasts but, Schuldig decides, she's not Crawford's type. Not his style. She's too ordinary. There's nothing particular to her that could possibly recommend her to anyone, much less Crawford.

Schuldig still wants her the fuck out of his bed.

She's asleep but she sits bolt upright when Schuldig comes into the room. Her eyes are the color of mud, fixed on him. Her English is thick with her native tongue. Gier, her name is. German.

"Who the fuck are you."

"I own this fucking room," Schuldig replies smoothly. "I own that fucking table and that fucking chair and that fucking bed, that's who the fuck I am. Who the fuck are _you_, now that's a fucking question. She blinks, surprised. She looks tired and disoriented, has a large purple bruise on her cheekbone. Someone punched her a few days back. Around her is an aura of sleepy comfort, thick as honey and just as sweet. Schuldig feels comfortable, himself. It touches all the pressure points on his brain and soothes him, soothes them, soothes their ache. He feels tired, too, looking at her eyes. A slight bruise on his own cheekbone? He brings his fingers to it to check. A dreamy motion. There's a heartbeat in his ears and a different one deep, deep in his belly. Inside he feels like a bowl of honey, a distorted stretch of sickness. Movement – movement – warmth. Thud thud, thud thud. Not his own. That pain on his cheekbone and that heaviness in his stomach. It feels like he's swallowed a rock.

He wraps his arms around himself, gagging. Hands have come out of her head, he realizes, have latched onto his brain. They squeeze. He can only see the panic and understanding on her plain, full-lipped face. He stumbles, drops to his knees. How can he pull his brain out of her head-hands? He's drowning and he never did learn how to swim. He's drowning because she's dragging him down with this weight in his belly. He curls himself into a ball. He tries to breathe but his lungs feel soft and his stomach is so full of something strange and only barely sentient. Pain – his cheek, hurting, a sensation trickling in through a filter.

"Shit," his own voice from far away. He should call for Nagi but when he opens his mouth only one name knows how to come out. "Crawford. Crawford. Brad."

Then there is a swirl of darkness. His stomach caves in against his spine and he –

Black.

The world comes back to him all at once. All at once he comes back to the world. They come together all at once. It's a crash of magnificent proportions. Schuldig opens his eyes feeling like scattered puzzle pieces. His eyeballs on one side of the room and his body in chunks all over.

"Put me back together," he demands.

Crawford's hands touch his face. He recognizes them. There is no tenderness, though it is a caress. It shows Schuldig that he already has put him back together. Just like that. Just like Schuldig asked and just when he asked. Crawford's fingers remind Schuldig of himself from his chin to his collarbone. Schuldig's skin twitches over its muscles.

"Can't feel my arms," he says. His lips move like rubber. His jaw is stiff. His eyelids slide lazily over his eyes. 

Crawford touches his right arm, fingers from shoulder to elbow to wrist. Crawford touches his left arm, fingers from shoulder to elbow to wrist. Crawford picks up both his hands and squeezes them into life.

"I've been trouble," Schuldig says. "Because my lips feel like fucking Bratwurst."

Crawford touches Schuldig's lips. It's a bad sign he's not saying anything.

"Say something."

Crawford, moving in and out of Schuldig's vision, is moving his lips.

Oh shit.

Oh shit.

Schuldig understands Crawford's talking, has been talking, will keep on talking, but there's no fucking sound coming out of his mouth. Crawford's moving but his shirt doesn't rustle, fabric against fabric, fabric against skin.

Oh shit.

Oh shit.

He can't hear any of it.

"I can't hear you," Schuldig says. He can't hear himself. He just knows what he's supposed to sound like. It's like being underwater, all alone and limbless. Sinking to an unknown depth, darkness without sound. "You're talking." He knows he must sound wild. He grabs for Crawford and holds on to Crawford's shirt. He pulls himself so hard and so fast against Crawford's chest that he almost throws up. He's underestimated his own strength. His body does exist.

Crawford lets him cling. Schuldig can feel Crawford's heartbeat against his jaw but he can't hear it. Everything in his head is a Crawford-less jumble of hysterical thought. His own, others'. Crawford's hands against his back, Crawford's lips against his cheek: these are the only realities.  single thought sings through above the others, cutting through the others.

_I will knock you out if I have to, _Crawford thinks._ I will knock you out until Tuesday. You're an idiot. Calm down._

He touches Schuldig's cheek. The back of his head. Schuldig smells metal, feels cool metal, against his neck.

_Trust me_, Crawford thinks.

Crack.

Schuldig feels the gun slam against his skull, up against the base of his skull. He is flooded with gratitude, then pain, then nothingness.

Sun slips underneath his eyelids. It wakes him. This is his second stage of convalescence. He moves his fingers, pulls the sheet underneath them to test their strength. The sound is muted but glorious. Schuldig's heart pounds with relief. The back of his head throbs dully, his chest is tight around his heart, and his blood tingles through his veins. She wonders how long he's been lying here, in a bed not his own.

He takes inventory. His name is Schuldig. He is twenty four years old. Tall. Green eyes. Red hair, these days, not green and not brown. He can hear and he can see and he can think. There's a bitch named Gier in his bedroom. This is her fault. Maybe Crawford will let him kill her. Maybe Crawford has already killed her.

Schuldig looks around. Crawford's room, Crawford in the chair next to him.

"Tuesday," Crawford says simply. "October second. One week and three days you've been useless. It's your own fault. You're lucky I didn't let you die and you're lucky I don't kill you, myself, right now. Can you sit up?"

Schuldig sits up.

"What is she?" Schuldig asks. 

"No one knows." Crawford isn't going to let Schuldig kill her. Anger surges through him. "Keep away, until we can figure out how to keep that from happening again. Is it clear now that my advice has actual merit?" Schuldig nods sullenly.

"What happened?"

"You disobeyed me." Crawford, who has not shaved for one week and three days, stands at last. He stretches. He thinks he'll take a long, hot shower. "Don't do it again."

He leaves Schuldig with no answers. Schuldig leans back in Crawford's bed. Only the memory of gun metal against the back of his head remains, and strange gifts given which he will never fully remember. He closes his eyes, and his head hurts.


	2. 2:

_eyes__ are wild I wrapped his smile calling me CLOSE. Only BLADES of grass seem greener than my INSTINCTS are wise up and don't act so COY, you only find the ANSWER in the WELL of my HEART'S design. you CAUGHT ME unaware, can you be so UNFAIR as to leash me with that DISGUISE?_

-from **Halogen's _Caught Me_**

**His Art is Eccentricity. Part Two.**

Seven fifteen at night and Crawford has Schuldig next to him at his desk. They read; Crawford makes notes. Every so often Crawford speaks. "Empath," he says. "Shows signs of it," Schuldig answers. They read; Crawford makes notes.

Gier is eating in Schuldig's room. She's pregnant. It's her baby that Crawford wants, not her. She is too old to be trusted. She is an anomaly, the man she fucked and got pregnant by was an anomaly before they blasted his head open, and her child will be an anomaly, one which Crawford can control completely. Crawford knows this. Crawford's going to raise the kid, or kill him, or lock him in a basement somewhere. Crawford needs this baby for something. He's keeping Gier alive and under his jurisdiction like a pet, a useful pet. it doesn't matter to Schuldig what the Hell Crawford wants, a kid or a blonde cunt to fuck or to drive Schuldig crazy. Schuldig hates her even though he's only seen her once. He doesn't have to see her more than once to form a full opinion. He hates her. He hates what she did to him, though inadvertently. He hates that she's in his room. He hates that Crawford spends so much time with her, researching her, protecting her. He hates her.

"It wasn't so much Empathy but this fucking tornado of unconscious thought," Schuldig says. It is one of his more lucid moments. "She fucking sucked me in. Like she was memorizing me, I don't know – incorporating me. Making me a part of her and then fucking erasing me."

Crawford makes notes.

"Like a psychological skin graft," he says. "Was she becoming you, or were you becoming her? Be clear."

"Both." The book they're reading is so boring Schuldig wants to scream. You can't define the Empath, the Telepath, the Telekinetic, the Prophetic. You just can't. No matter who the hell you think you are and how much you think you know. "Shit, Crawford, this book isn't going to help. Whoever the fuck wrote it doesn't know shit about—"

"There are, however, characteristics indicative of," Crawford smiles thinly, "particular peculiarities. Which is what we're researching."

"You are some kind of crazy. She tries to suck my brain out of my head and you're reading about it in a fucking book."

"It isn't an unexpected reaction. You're going to have to set up a barrier – a magnetic field not opposite to hers, but the same as hers, which will keep the tornado effect from happening."

"Well." Schuldig's grin is far from cheerful. "That's as easy as apple pie, Mr. Crawford." He's been in Crawford's room for four days now, caged and cranky. Even a solution to his imprisonment pisses him off, coming from Crawford. "All right," Schuldig says to Crawford's unimpressed expression. "Let's get this over with so I can be properly introduced to this bitch."

Schuldig remembers the way it was with Nagi once. Those powers, untrained and easily lost control of, were purely physical. Sometimes Nagi would be frightened and Schuldig wouldn't pull his mind out in time and Nagi would literally twist his brain around. Each time Nagi had fixed the mess he'd made and Schuldig would comfort the poor, freaked kid by refusing to curse at him, by having cookies with him to settle both their nerves. After a while the accidents trained them both. Schuldig knows how to keep hands out of his head. He knows how to disappear. He's prepared, now; he knows what that bitch's head can do to him. Though it makes him so angry he could scream, he does as Crawford tells him. _Think of it like a magnetic force that repels rather than attracts._ Schuldig trains it to be an instinct, Crawford's hands on either side of his head. 

As always, Schuldig learns quickly. They're done and it's nine-thirty. 

"I'm taking a bath," Schuldig announces. He presses his thumb in the ridge between his eyebrows, warding off a headache.

"All right." Crawford locks his notes away in a drawer and locks the key to that drawer in another. Even Schuldig doesn't know where the key to that drawer goes. It always appears only when needed.

"Feel free to join me," Schuldig says tiredly. It isn't any kind of forgiveness or gratitude that prompts Schuldig to make the offer. He needs something to do with his body to tire it out like his head is tired, so he can sleep through the night. "We'll use your bathroom," he adds, pulling his t-shirt off and kicking out of his jeans. He takes his hair out of its ponytail and he stretches, naked, for a moment, in front of the open window. Crawford watches him.

"I'll be in in a minute," he says.

The bathroom is mostly new to Schuldig. Everything is white and neat and clean. There's a razor and shaving el set neatly on one side of the sink; a toothbrush and toothpaste on the other side. There's a bottle of aspirin, a roll of bandages and a first aid box in the cabinet over the sink. That's it. The tub is big, long and deep, with Jacuzzi jets. Schuldig snorts.

"Son of a bitch," he says, running the water hot – enough for steam to rise. It clouds the air, clouds the cabinet mirror. It warms his chilled flesh, sweat beading the back of his neck.

Behind him the door opens. Closes. Click. Crawford comes in, loosening his tie. Schuldig stands, pressing a hand idly to a scar on his own thigh. He feels the ridge of skin against the smooth skin surrounding it. He harbors that sudden oddness of not being able to feel a part of his own body. He presses his forefinger against the deadened flesh. It is a long scar, thin and without much depth. His finger runs its length idly Around it, the puckered skin is extra sensitive, making up for the severed nerves beneath the scar.

"The other bathroom doesn't have Jacuzzi jets," Schuldig points out. He turns around and begins to unbutton Crawford's shirt himself. His scarred thigh brushes up against Crawford's left leg. He has this weird new barrier up even now because he doesn't trust the latest stray Crawford's decided to bring home.

"I'm letting you use it," Crawford says. The Jacuzzi jets. "Don't complain."

Schuldig shrugs.

"Is it a boy or a girl?"

"Boy," Crawford answers. He watches Schuldig's long fingers undo the buttons down the center of his chest and stomach. He watches Schuldig's long fingers un-tuck his shirt from the waistband of his pants. He watches Schuldig unzip his fly and feels Schuldig's hands take his pants and his underwear off, easy as always. He hears Schuldig's voice, _easy as apple pie, Mr. Crawford_. He watches and feels Schuldig's long fingers press against the sides of his thighs.

Crawford told Schuldig the whole story earlier. He stated all the facts, most of the details, and gave none of the context. Gier is not important to Schuldig, not directly. They will keep her to assure that the child shall be delivered immediately into their hands. Then, Crawford will let Schuldig shoot her between the eyes if Schuldig wants to. 

Always, Crawford has had to admit to himself, the next generation is more powerful than the preceding one. If they are to continue to not only survive but to prevail then they must not become obsolete. Old methods, practice and prior experience can only take a man so far. It is the future Crawford looks to for his answers. It is the future which Crawford must employ to triumph. It has always been so – one way, or another.

"Do I get to kill her after?" Schuldig, naked, presses against Crawford, naked. Crawford sighs.

"If you wish."

Schuldig grins like two daggers, one out in the open, one concealed. He pulls away and settles himself into the hot bath, hissing. Crawford moves in after him, stretches out opposite him. He waits with one eye open, watching Schuldig as Schuldig watches him. Schuldig must come to him. There has never been a time where Crawford allowed himself to come to Schuldig.

With a slip and slide of water, Schuldig bridges the distance between them. There are seconds of cold skin mated with the hot embrace of the hot bath. Schuldig, Crawford tells himself, has poor circulation. He does not eat enough, and though he gets exercise often that is only one half the puzzle. He smokes always, which doesn't help. Crawford traces the curve of his spine, each vertebra somewhere beneath the splay and stretch of sprawling muscle.

They press together. The water is a whisper_, shh, shh, sssh_, against the side of the tub.

"Crawford?" Schuldig, warm and cool and fire and shadow. Crawford, fucking him. 

"What." It isn't a question. It's an acknowledgement of Schuldig's question.

"Turn the jets on."

Crawford acquiesces, without good reason.

In Schuldig's room Gier is sitting in Schuldig's bed, eating ice cream, watching Schuldig's soap on Schuldig's TV. Schuldig leans in the doorway, watching her. He smokes a cigarette, wears one of Crawford's shirts and a pair of old jeans. His hair is still damp, pulled back from his face and tied carelessly. For the first time in two weeks he has color in his face.

"What the fuck are you?" he asks.

"Don't know." Gier has a vulgar smile. She's probably a good fuck, Schuldig thinks, squishy in all the right places. She looks at him like she might fuck him. She looks at him like she wants that cigarette. She looks at him slyly from the corners of her eyes, surrounded by dark makeup. Who does she think she's meeting, with mascara and eyeliner and lipstick and the works? Some of the lipstick has come off on the plastic spoon she uses to eat her ice cream. Schuldig watches her fat tongue curve around the head of the spoon. He lifts a brow. "No one knows," she continues. "Didn't the American man tell you that?"

Schuldig shrugs.

"How long have you been pregnant?" He doesn't blow smoke in her direction. No damage to her, no damage to the baby. Crawford's orders.

"Four months." Her eyebrows draw together, pulled by an invisible string. For a moment annoyance clouds her pedestrian features. Then, she eases back into a comfortable position, eats another spoonful of ice cream, and satisfies herself with this momentary distraction. On the TV someone screams. There is a gunshot. A thud. Another scream. Commercials flicker on. Some catchy jingle plays behind some woman's cheerful voice. Schuldig takes a long drag. Five more months of this bitch in his life. In his room.

"How did he find you?"

"The American?" She lifts a brow. "I would have thought he'd tell you."

Schuldig's lips twitch.

"Thought I'd hear both sides of it."

"Come sit next to me." Gier beckons with the spoon. "And I'll tell you." Schuldig thinks about it. Schuldig thinks about it _obviously_. He takes another drag on his cigarette and then he steps into the room. He opens the window. He throws the cigarette out. He lets fresh air into the room to get rid of the smoke and then he closes the window again.

"Can't have you catching cold, can we," he says. Gier waits. "Anyway, _the American told me I'm not allowed to fuck you."_

"Oh?"

"And that's what you want." Schuldig clacks his teeth. "You want me to lick ice cream off your breasts or something equally fucking stupid." Her fat tongue around the spoon again, pink, wet. He wonders if he should tell her doesn't find that attractive at all. She shifts, leaning forward. He thinks maybe he won't tell her. One sleeve slips down the side of her arm, which is pale and soft and without much muscle. She's plump. Schuldig wants to bite her.

"He told me I can have whatever I want," she says. "Have some ice cream. You're too thin."

Schuldig crosses the room and sits down on the edge of the bed. The commercials are over and now the soap music has started to play. Something big is happening, some woman lying dead on the floor and a man with thick eyebrows standing over her, holding a gun. Another woman – anorexic, Schuldig thinks idly – clings to a banister, sobbing histrionically. If he were having a better week, Schuldig would laugh. He's not. He doesn't. He lets Gier feed him a spoonful of ice cream. 

"Anything you want?" he asks.

"Anything."

Schuldig clacks his teeth together again. Now his mouth tastes like cigarette smoke and ice cream and tobacco and Crawford somewhere deeper. He's tired. He's too tired to fuck. He's too tired to work for Crawford anymore. He's too tired to play these games. He's too tired to do anything more than watch the soap and fall asleep. Acknowledging this depresses him. Anger surges in his stomach. He just wanted to sleep and now he's livid. He moves his gaze to Gier, who watches him.

"We give Germans a bad name," Schuldig points out.

"Germans give Germans a bad name," Gier replies. "Might as well have fun with it."

"Shit," Schuldig says, "I guess so. Hey, if I fuck you, is that shit going to happen again?"

"Honestly?"

"Honestly."

"I don't know." Gier licks the spoon clean, sets the ice cream and the spoon down on Schuldig's bedside table.

"Good," Schuldig says. "I hope it does." She shimmies out of her shirt and Schuldig realizes it's been a long time since he's gotten familiar with a woman's nipples.

"You're crazy," Gier says. She's overweight. She carries it well. She's got a slight roll of fat on her abdomen, accentuated when she leans forward. Her breasts are big, well-shaped. Nothing more unexciting than ugly breasts. She moves like someone used to the streets. Schuldig laughs, watching her. He's turned on. A little. He's turned on thinking that she could make his head blow up like it almost did the last time. He's turned on thinking that Crawford didn't intend this, _never_ intended this, and now he's going to fuck the bitch and Crawford's not. Crawford, spending all this time on her, never getting his dick up inside her. Schuldig, hating her for taking up so much of his space, invited into her. She spreads her legs like a pro.

"Yeah," Schuldig says, "I guess I'm fucking crazy." He grips her thighs, her ass, doesn't bother to pull his pants all the way down. She rolls her head back. Her lips are warm, her breasts moist with sweat. She rolls against him. "Shit," Schuldig says. Shit, she's good. She kneels over him. "Shit," Schuldig says. "Oh, fuck, shit." She makes these sounds above him. He pushes his face against her left breast. He wants to bite it – he bites it. She shudders above him. He listens carefully to her thoughts, trying to keep his distance. About half an hour ago and he was fucking Crawford in the bathroom and she heard them. She ate ice cream listening to them. How did she hear them?

Two weeks ago, morning, she's throwing up in a garbage can. Running away from everyone. Everything hurts and she's got a black eye. She presses a hand to her stomach, retches.

Two months ago and he's still alive. They're being hunted through the sewers. He tells her to go on without him and she does because they're not in love. She hears the sound of his brain being shot out his ear and she tries not to throw up not because she has any self-restraint but because they'll hear her if she does. Them. A notorious, inexplicable them.

Four months ago and they haven't met and she's just a number, confusing and caught and standing her place on line to be dissected.

Schuldig flips them. He's over her, now, her arms move above her head. They grasp the headboard of Schuldig's bed, her fingernails tear at the wood. He wants to hurt her. He wants to kill her. She's enjoying it – crazy German bitch – her mouth clamped down on his shoulder. There's no delicacy about her. She's more Schuldig's type than Crawford's. Crawford was right. She's vulgar. Her fat thighs press against Schuldig's lean ones, rub against the fabric of his jeans.

On the TV a coma patient wakes after a year with amnesia.

On the TV they cart the body of the latest victim away to the sobs of her sister.

On the TV a man throws a glass of some expensive alcohol against a wall; it shatters; another, different, still anorexic woman screams.

Schuldig doesn't like his women thin. He likes to hold on to them. He likes to muffle the stupid sounds he makes into their breasts, he likes to bite them and taste them and feel them.

Schuldig orgasms and he bites Gier's breast again and then he pulls away savagely. She moans, lets out a fluttering, open-mouthed sigh. Her body, which was for a moment stiff, relaxes. She melts back against the bed. She is disheveled. Her wild hair falls over her flushed face. Sweat glistens in the valley between her breasts. Schuldig looks at her. The TV is trying to sell him tampons.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Schuldig says. He has to get out of this room. His room. He chokes, and zips up his pants, and slams the door behind him.

He can hear her laughter anyway, following him out. It is thick and slow and cheap.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Schuldig says again. He runs his fingers through his hair. He listens. Crawford is asleep; Farfarello is insane; Nagi is –

Nagi.

Schuldig runs down the hallway, pushes the door to Nagi's room open.

"I fucked her," Schuldig says. Nagi, who is bent over his desk and presumably working, looks up at him. Blinks.

"You're unfair to me," Nagi says blankly. "I'm a teenager. I'm not your psychiatrist."

"Shut the fuck up, Nagi," Schuldig says. "Shut the fuck up and hold me." It is a minimally pleasant comfort that Nagi does as he's told. He comes and he sits next to Schuldig on the bed and puts a thin arm around Schuldig's thin shoulder. "She asked me to," Schuldig explains. "She was licking ice cream off a fucking spoon at me and then she took off her shirt. She _asked _me to."

"A lot of your excuses start that way," Nagi says.

"A lot of my excuses are fucking true," Schuldig replies. 

"I never said they weren't."

"What the fuck is Crawford trying to do." Schuldig presses his thumb against that ridge of aching muscle on his forehead. "What the fuck time is it."

"I don't know, and twelve-sixteen." Nagi pats Schuldig's shoulder ineffectually. Schuldig _is_ being unfair to him. What the hell was he thinking, _shut the fuck up and hold me_? Normal people don't say that and Schuldig _certainly doesn't say that. It's unfair to Nagi, who thinks that if he pats Schuldig on the shoulder enough times when Crawford won't do it that Schuldig will suddenly give a fuck. Schuldig doesn't even give a fuck that he's being unfair. He's not going to give a fuck that Nagi has some notion that Schuldig will ever give a fuck about anything. _

Nagi pushes Schuldig's shaking hand away.

"Here," Nagi says. "Let me do it." He does it. Schuldig leans his head against the wall behind him and slouches so Nagi can reach his forehead. Nagi presses a small thumb against the twitching muscle. He presses something else, some force of compacted air, against the muscle. It's twitches slow, then disappear. "Better?" Nagi asks.

"Better."

"Hm." The door's lock clicks shut. Sometimes Schuldig hates it when Nagi does that, locking a door from across the room or getting the bag of Oreos without even getting up. Now, Schuldig just laughs.

"Who're you keeping out?" Schuldig asks.

"Who am I keeping in," Nagi corrects him. "I'm just making sure that if the Pope comes over you don't fuck him, too."

"Nagi." Schuldig sprawls out across Nagi's lap. "I'm shocked."

"Bad influences," Nagi says. He plays absently with Schuldig's hair. "I have these bad influences."

"Everyone says that at least once in their lives. It's a fucking stupid excuse."

"I like the red, Schuldig," Nagi says. "It's taken me a while to get used to it, but I like it."

"Glad to have your approval. I don't think Crawford likes it. I don't think Crawford fucking notices. Maybe I should be a blonde with big tits and a womb and then he'd fucking notice." 

"Jealous?"

"Not really."

"Oh."

"Want to kill her, though."

"You'll get your chance."

"I know." Schuldig searches through his pockets for his lighter and his last cigarette. He lights the cigarette presses it against his lips and makes a face. "Unfiltered. Fuck. Do you think I should shoot her or kick her to death?"

"I didn't know you were much good at kicking."

"Kick like a fucking horse." Schuldig blows smoke out his nose. "Kick like a fucking _kangaroo."_

"It's certainly original. Why don't you get some sleep and then, in the morning, we can make a list of pros and cons? Shooting: involves guns. Kicking: reminiscent of kangaroos." Schuldig laughs. He turns, presses his face against Nagi's hip. His cigarette trails smoke into the air, drops ash over the edge of the bed. Nagi cradles his head, bows his body over. "You're an idiot," he says. "You're such an idiot."

"Ow," Schuldig says. "Bruise." Nagi's hold lightens. "Let's just go to bed. Let's just fucking go to bed." 

Click.

Lights off.

Sometimes Schuldig it hates it when Nagi does that, turning the lights off without moving to the light switch or floating the first aid kit in from Crawford's bathroom without moving a finger. Now, Schuldig just closes his eyes and pulls Nagi's covers over his head. Nagi curls up, small, at his back, cheek at his shoulder-blade. 

"I'm tired," Schuldig says. Nagi's hand rests at his waist. "And this is _not cuddling." _

It isn't cuddling. It's clinging.

They fall asleep in no more than five minutes.


End file.
